Square One
by Postapocalypticdepository
Summary: Bella Swan knows success comes at a price and doesn't ensure happiness. Realizing in becoming the best, she also unleashes her worst. Knowing how lonely it is at the top she's willing to try anything, keeping her from rock bottom, even if it's stranger.
1. Chapter 1

Welcome to PAD's World.

I don't own anything, Stephenie Meyer, but I love borrowing her stuff.

This is for my dear friend, Bornonhalloween, for her birthday.

(To those of you rereading this, please make note of the changes and additions. I hope they are all for the better. Please let me know either way.)

* * *

 **Chapter One**

* * *

I'm sixty-seven floors up in a corner office worth dying for and a skyline that won't quit.

 _It's too bad I never get to enjoy it._

If I'm not buried in meetings, I'm swamped with proposals.

 _Consulting is demanding._

There's just never enough time in the day, but if by chance there is, I scurry around my office like a fat rat seeking fine food in a French restaurant, one that's never happy and never sated.

Like the rat, I always want more, meaning more for my clients. This means I always demand more, more from me. In turn, I drive myself crazy trying to obtain perfection that is already perfect. Then I obsess over all of the things I can do better that I've already done.

Then I fix all that is perfect and everything done until I can't see straight and sulk over the shame of it on my ride home, dialing for take-out or zapping what's frozen once I get there. Then I seek the comfort of my cushy love seat and curved TV screen which, sadly, are the only things greeting me.

 _I don't even have a goldfish_.

As I think on it, I really wish I had something more . . . something more who was really _someone_.

I keep telling myself it's why I'm doing this. I need the constant reminder, the warning that my addiction to my job isn't good. It's why I'm going _there_ —to that place. It's why I need a kick in the pants here and now to solve my problem.

 _Then maybe that someone will want to put up with some of me and hopefully, eventually, all of me, so I can start a life—outside of work_.

.

.

.

Today's not a good one to be worrying about this. I truly have no time to spare as I race around my office, ensuring things are in place for my return. Switching to a comfortable pair of heels from my painful designer ones proves almost deadly as I lose my balance and nearly crash into my custom-made credenza with its attached "hutch of fame".

"Attagirl" plaques and other knickknacks topple, falling on me while I cope with the searing burn from just jamming my toe.

 _I hope I didn't scrape the leather on my shoe_.

Add a crunch to my knee from an unruly drawer handle while pulling away, and I scream.

"Son of a bitch!"

I don't have enough minutes or hands to rub my injuries, so I slip on the remaining heel, straighten my fallen accolades, and remember to grab my clutch before limping out of my suite.

Given my foul mood, I may have just _accidently_ slammed shut my imported mahogany door, startling only a handful of knowing colleagues but scaring demons out of everyone else.

Hobbling to the elevators, I get stares but no comments."

 _They wouldn't dare_.

.

As I await the elevator I contemplate my anticipated _appointment_ , the one plaguing me since I awoke. It might prove too much, given the day I've already had coupled with my dinner meeting tonight. I consider calling and cancelling, but in the thirty-seven seconds it takes for the golden doors to ding open, I think I've woman-ed up, making my decision.

Weighing the pros and cons like a ref judging a title bout between two evenly matched heavyweights isn't easy, but throwing down the towel, accepting I need to concede, is even harder.

 _I hate concessions._

My head already has a major dent. My toe's going to be three times its size, and my knee hurts like the Devil.

The way I figure, things can't get much worse, and though I may not win the bout, I'll at least win this round.

 _My stockings didn't snag!_

 _._

The ride to the lobby gives me time to think. It gives me time to reflect on how this all began . . . .

"I'm sorry, Ms. Swan, but there isn't much more I can offer you, regarding conventional treatments. I understand you're open to trying additional pharmaceuticals to lessen your symptoms, but unfortunately, there aren't many more I can prescribe that won't give you uncomfortable side effects."

 _Another defeat_.

"What about unconventional options? Can you suggest anything there?" I force my optimism.

 _Please say you have something else for me in your medical bag of tricks._

"It's interesting you should ask. I just received news this morning of an upcoming study seeking participants. I'll be straight with you. The method being employed is extreme, but for your situation, maybe we need to step outside the box—though _only_ if you're game . . ."

 _My doctor hands me a spit bucket, raising a skeptical eyebrow_.

"The rest will be up to you."

.

I reason I'm still here, without offing myself or becoming institutionalized, so I guess I should be happy my doctor opted for giving me the bucket instead of throwing in the towel.

Back then, stepping outside of that proverbial box was more like stepping inside the ring—with both of those prizefighters! It was quite humbling, extremely embarrassing, and very humiliating. Thinking about that moment a few months ago when I agreed to this makes me wonder why I'm still at it.

 _Desperation to get well_.

.

I proceed from the elevator with a slight limp and walk forty-nine steps over the extravagant marble and granite tiles, easing up only when my foot begins to throb. Tiny fleur-de-lis accents, reminding me of my granddad's time as a Boy Scout master, dot the floor.

 _I never noticed them before_.

The shoes I'm wearing meekly tap the polished stone. Gone is the clack of commanding heels I hear most days—the ones showing others who's boss.

Diminished, I feel no sense of authority as I pass through the ornate revolving door and head toward my destination,

 _It's unsettling_.

This ridiculous form of "therapy" has stripped me of that—my power—and has me coping with a wave of nausea, considering what will be happening once I get there.

.

Outside on the concrete sidewalk, I stand still and crane my neck, looking up at the façade of my ivory tower—the east side high rise I'm proud to have risen up through the ranks to be in. Thinking on this, I lower my head and question if this level of authority is honestly worth giving up a personal life.

Finally, I sigh, contemplating the fact that I'll probably still be working here when I'm chronologically old and hiding my gray, without children, grandchildren, or a man with whom I'd share my time.

 _I have my answer_.

.

I hail a cab and immediately feel more queasiness—the burning, oozing, fizzing type of discomfort that not even a bottle of antacid or a box of baking soda will remedy. Short of stomach pumping, I think I'm stuck with it for the next few hours. I just hope it goes by quickly.

 _I didn't think to bring a vomit bag_.

.

It would be easier for me to accept that a co-worker slipped drain cleaner into my coffee than to digest the true reason for the knot presently tying itself in my gut.

 _This isn't me; I no longer give in to what others want_.

Every time I think about the uncomfortable situation in which I've placed myself—especially on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons—I realize I'm stuck facing it. Short of a medical emergency or some family catastrophe, I'm committed to seeing this through.

 _I wish there were an easier way._

.

My mustard-colored chariot is next in queue, and I hustle toward it, asserting myself while discouraging others. "One Professional Park Square, Cullen Solutions," I command while quickly stepping in, wasting no time arm-wrestling the creaking, squeaking, impossible door, fending off another cab seeker because I'm definitely not willing to share my space or make small talk with another person while being chauffeured there.

I sense judgment from my bearded, turban-wearing driver as he flashes his amber eyes while wrinkling his snubbed nose reflecting toward me in the rearview mirror.

I don't have any doubt he's displaying his disgust over the location I've chosen.

It's bad enough going to a place conducting clinical experiments, let alone having someone impose his criticism, thinking I'm just another mouse they are using.

Is that what I am?

 _Maybe I shouldn't be so quick in mentally condemning him_.

.

I'm sure this guy has seen his share of alcoholics, junkies, and hookers there, at One Square, hanging out, seeking drug money as they sell the little use left of their brains for a quick fix. I guess scientists presume _these_ are the best candidates to make sacrifices, contributing toward the betterment of mankind. Luckily, the side of the building I'm going has kept me away from most of them, those destitute, undesirable types. _I only wish it would keep me away from the clinicians, too._ I'm not sure I'd still be coming here if another off-putting condition were given me, making this ordeal even more uncomfortable. Considering this, I try calming myself by sitting back and resting my eyes. I can only hope the the ride is peaceful but thankful, nonetheless, the car is clean.

 _Having to carry a drop cloth in my handbag to place atop a filthy backseat does not make for a pleasant ride or good service_.

.

I feel we're getting closer; I can tell by the noise. The traffic is lighter with fewer brakes squeaking, horns honking, or expletives flying. My slightly lowered window is letting in better air, too. I don't smell as much rubber from tires or diesel exhaust from trucks stopping and going, so I open my eyes and lower the glass a little more. As I turn my sight to the road ahead, my eyes are startled when finding the smile cast back in the driver's mirror. I place my fingers over my lips to verify it's truly mine. Unsure why I am seeing what I'm seeing, I surmise my grinning has something to do with how much more acutely aware my senses have become. They are in tune with everything I can't see and even some that I can. My conclusion is this must be a residual effect from the study.

 _I'm not sure how to process something positive, such as this._

.

I get more anxious as we get closer, so I meditate, practicing the exercises given me, hoping to ease some of the ills added to my list of somatic complaints. Tense and relax. Tense and relax. I say it, willing my stress to dissipate and float away as it exits my fingertips. Thinking about this technique has me digressing, wondering if watching Lamaze classes would actually help; I can just see myself on a cab ride doing "hoos and hees."

 _Even if never bearing children, I could at least say I had some of the experience_.

.

Now centered, and a bit less tense, I'm actually enjoying my ride and becoming more absorbed with my surroundings.

While stopped at a traffic light, I smell the sweet, woody scent of shedding leaves, decaying, and find it oddly comforting. Other leaves shaken free by a brisk wind, swirl overhead, darting and swooping like a flock a birds before a gentle breeze takes over, slowly releasing them to the ground. At the next light, a little more confetti falls peacefully yielding, softly pitter-pattering, and gracefully drifting to the ground. I open my eyes wider, not wanting to miss the playful dots of impressionist color, the yellows, umbers, ochers, and crimsons I rarely see in the city as the trees gently hand over their control to winter, control that trades their warmth and color for the cold and gray.

 _I shudder, thinking about another lonely season devoid of everything_.

.

If someone were to tell me I'd be doing this a few months ago, I would have laughed myself to happy tears, thinking of the absurdity. Yet, when I began processing this back then, I had tears of a different kind, the kind that told me not only how successful and insulated my professional career was, but also how pathetic and alienated my personal life had become. Although I no longer cry about it now, I'm still too ashamed to talk about this with anyone outside of the people setting up this experiment. And with them, it's only because I have to.

It stinks being incapable of revealing my on-goings to my few friends, but wonder, nonetheless, how they'd judge me if I did. And if keeping this from them seems challenging, it's been nearly impossible, not blurting it to the one person mattering most, my mother. A knife twists in me each time I lie, betraying her trust, but in the end, I realize I could never tell her what I've been doing. She's given me nothing but complete and absolute love, praise, and acceptance; it would shatter her if she knew I were doing something so reprehensible. Despite knowing this, my wicked curiosity still piques, wondering how that hypothetical tête-à-tête would go:

 _"Oh, Bella, it's so great to see you!"_

"It's great to see you, too, Mom!"

 _"Tea is steeping in the kitchen. Hang up your things, kick off your shoes, and come join me."_

"So, I see you haven't changed anything in here; no remodeling, new appliances, or even dishes."

 _"You know me, sweetie, I'm partial to keeping things just as they are. I don't need fancy and really hate change."_

"That's what I've always admired about you. You're low maintenance and you know it!"

 _"Well, Ms. Nordstrom, at one time I could have said the same thing about you!"_

"Ouch! I guess I had that coming!"

" _Sugar is on the counter. Lemons are in the fridge. Cups are in the cupboard, and scones are on the cooktop. Remember, I'm your mother, not your maid, doorman, or administrative assistant. Grab what you need and drag your butt over to the sofa."_

"Gee, I love you, too, Mom!"

 _"Here, set down your cup and plate on the coffee table, and put this towel over your thousand dollar skirt."_

"How did you know how much it cost?"

 _"I didn't, but I know you and would like to think, at one time, knew you better."_

"Yeah, I deserve that."

 _"So tell me, pretty, city girl, how are things with work?"_

"Actually, they're fine. I got that promotion I was telling you about. I'm now head of consulting"

" _That's wonderful! Good for you! You work hard. Too hard! But you still deserve it. You aren't too stressed about the added responsibilities, are you? I hope you're still taking care of yourself."_

"No, things are good."

" _Are you getting enough sleep and eating well?"_

"Yes, of course."

" _I'm glad to hear that. Are there any other things you'd like to share, like maybe a new man in your life; engagement rings and wedding bells, perhaps?"_

"Way to pressure me, Ma. We have this discussion every time I see you."

 _"That should be telling you something! Need I remind you? I still have all this dormant grandma in me, waiting to erupt, spewing lava over all of her grandchildren."_

"Well, I truly wasn't planning on telling you this, Mom . . . though it's really funny you should ask . . . so here's the thing. I've been going through a bit of a rough spot but think I'm actually doing much better since being part of this clinical study. You see, I'm getting fucked by the same strange man a few times each week, and golly gee, life couldn't be any peachier."

Yeah, I can definitely see that conversation going over swimmingly, considering my mother almost became a nun.

* * *

A/N:

What is the deal with this stranger?

Would you ever consider this type of study?

Please share your words, conveying your thoughts.

* * *

Thank you, Chayasara. My post-beta stubbornness is mine.

* * *

If I can find my groove, I'll try updating some of my other stories. If you are new to me, check me out there. Unhinged will be winding down. The squeaky wheel will get my grease. Tell me what you like, and I'll see what I can do.

Come find me on Facebook as Penni Anne Daben.

* * *

Thank you for reading and leaving me your love.

PAD


	2. Chapter 2

Welcome to PAD's world.

I don't own anything, Stephenie Meyer, but I like borrowing her stuff.

Please leave your thoughts. I'm interested in what you think of Ms. Swan

See you at the bottom.

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

* * *

The cab rounds the corner and turns onto the road, finally leading to the last stretch.

"Just drive around to the left and look for the entrance with the yellow flowers and green door," I tell him. "Will you also call your dispatcher and schedule a pick up for me in seventy-five minutes? I need to be back at my office by five-thirty."

When fully stopped, I swipe my black card, not only leaving my fare but also a generous tip, hoping the man won't drive and tell, sharing my drop-off with his cronies, gossiping and comparing the pick-ups for his shift.

I don't need his co-workers—with their scrutinizing eyes—on the lookout when I hail them, ready to mock me while I still have to come here.

 _Come. I can't avoid the double entendre._

"Yes, I can certainly do that. Maybe I can even pick you up, myself," he says after it dawns on him how much I've left as a financial gesture. He turns, looking over his seat, flashing a few gold teeth dotting an otherwise coffee-stained smile before flying out of his door to open mine.

 _It's amazing what a decent gratuity will do_.

My stomach still churns as I exit the car, its juice flipping around like the solution in a rock tumbler. I try concentrating on other things, things I hope will take my mind off what I'm about to do. I focus on happy things like how the unseasonable humidity envelops me like a draped sweater just removed from a dryer or how the rubbery surface under my feet greets my shoes as they slightly sink into and pleasantly spring from the new asphalt just laid.

 _Just laid? Now that's an interesting choice of words_.

The air, thick with oil from the new pavement, would ordinarily bother my senses; however, today it's actually a welcoming presence, placating me.

 _How odd._

.

I walk the twenty steps it takes to get to _my_ side of the building and admire the annuals and perennials, still blooming, along the way. Flowers of gold, pink, mauve, and blue dip their heads to the buzzing insects still seeking food for their winter. Gone is the pastel of spring and boldness of summer. Autumn displays its own rich distinction. The colors are aged, hardened, and darkened from the licking and nipping of the cooler days and colder nights.

 _Aged, hardened, and darkened like me._

.

We each have our own his and hers entrances, keeping our identities hidden, making the discomfiture more tolerable. I decide it is better just to get this over with, so I head toward mine.

While walking, I turn on my phone and see that I still have a few minutes, so I sit on the glider and rock serenely, trying to collect myself while checking my messages.

.

When I'm finished answering mail, I go to the entryway and stop my procrastinating.

 _This is it_ ; _it's almost four o'clock_.

I let out a heavy sigh as I grab the nickel-plated doorknob, twisting it one-quarter turn.

 _Twisting like my gut_.

.

I step over the threshold, catching my heel mid-stride, aggravating the swelling of my knee and the bruising of my toe. I can already tell I'm early because I don't smell his cologne, the one usually tickling my nose. Reflecting on it now, reminded me then how difficult it was being in the same room with him. Now it's as if my sense of smell has adjusted, somewhat. The room seems different without his presence. It almost has a feminine odor, like floral-based cleaning products or fresh-scented laundry detergent. He gives this space an earthier appeal. It's not bad. It's just different.

 _It's actually more suitable, maybe even pleasant, compared to the stuff worn by other men in my building_.

.

Aah, the men in my building fear me.

As I ponder this, I surmise, _most_ men do.

I got to where I am because I'm assertive.

I had to be.

But it wasn't always like this . . .

I hated being skipped over for promotions. I did the work of two, maybe three men. Management always perceived me as too nice or too sweet, one not equipped with the aggressive substance only males could bring to an organization.

One day I got my chance when the head of my team became sick with the flu. I was the only one who understood the data as well as he. I stayed up most of the night preparing, getting maybe three hours of sleep. The next day, even dog tired, I gave the presentation of a lifetime and floored my bosses. I not only secured that project, but also won the confidence and admiration of the corporation with which we were doing business. That one presentation landed my company _all_ future consulting endeavors with that conglomerate, providing I would solely be in charge of their needs. As a result, my company gave me my own staff.

Suddenly, I was thrust into a supervisory role, mostly managing men who didn't want to be managed—more specifically men who didn't want to be managed by a woman. I knew they would eventually capitalize on my weaknesses, sabotage my efforts, and contribute to my demise. To counter this, I secretly began assertiveness training, training teaching me how to stand my ground . . . alter my passivity . . . and, ultimately, make others hate me. Consequently, I became so good at managing, I now chase everyone away.

It's hard seeking a relationship, being intimate with someone when you are always the one doing the telling, scrambling for control. It's even harder when you scrutinize what they do and outline how they should do it . . . specifically during sex . . . especially when it's your boyfriend . . . and ultimately while he is leaving you.

.

Since beginning this trial, I know I've changed and am still changing.

 _I know I have to._

 _._

I love my job but hate my life because I don't have one.

It's one accepting sorrow.

It's one involving solitude.

It's one that brought me back to square one.

 _It's one, I wish, involved two._

.

"Square One".

They are the words I transposed when writing down the address here. The ones left on my sticky note pad, the pink one, the one placed on my desk with the words still there, serving as a constant reminder where I was when I first began this. _Square One_. They are the words I hope to ceremoniously shred when I finally find the right man, the one who will truly want me.

Part of the reason for my dilemma is that I'm a taskmistress, a perfectionist, one overseeing the completion of many projects. I don't stand over my employees and dictate who does what, where, and when or care how people use _their_ time but when it's _my_ time, I do demand their adherence to my specifications and deadlines. As long as I have what I need, done to my liking and done when I need it, one won't feel my scourge. In that respect, I've never felt the need to be a clock-watching tyrant, accounting for every minute of the day, incessantly ticking off items or tasks. But recently, I've found myself doing much more of that . . . being a she beast . . . being on edge.

My tyranny is even stronger whenever I'm deprived of sight, having to surrender. Everything else intensifies, including my lack of patience. I need to learn how not to let it bother me as I learn to let go.

 _I suppose I need to work on that._

.

I walk the fourteen steps it takes to get to the second door from the carpeted hall. Before stepping inside, I take note of my surroundings:

The room is sparse and, by my calculations, measures about 24 x 36. Upon entering, there is a garment hook overhead to the left with a few hangers dangling from it. A beige shelf eighteen inches deep and three and a half feet from the floor is directly below. It extends the distance between his door and mine. In the middle above is clock affixed to the wall. Its soft chime is the only device allowed, ending our session. It also serves as a reminder for me to silence my phone, which I reluctantly do.

To my right is the actual room . . . with the bed. The floor under the counter is laminate, resembling wood. The floor under the bed has carpeting, not with thick plushy shag but industrial level loop—the kind that shocks when the air is too dry, the kind that shocks me.

The bed, placed in the middle of the room with its headboard against the wall, is of Scandinavian design with a platform base. It has an attached, otherwise solid, metal headboard with a rectangular opening and a two-inch wide horizontal bar running between both posters. The mattress, made of eight-inch memory foam, is nothing spectacular but not backbreaking either. The cranberry-colored spread and sheets are reasonable but nowhere near the quality of mine. In the center of the room in front of the bed there is a large lacquered accordion panel, separating our sides, shielding one from the other, eight-feet tall and oriental in design. With its bamboo trees and munching pandas, it's the only thing in this room that makes me smile.

Starting near the bed, and snaking around the periphery of the room, are two chrome-coated symmetrical handrails, providing guidance in the dark, one on each side of the opposing walls, stopping just short of the counter. Bolted to the floor, they are the only things I trust in here to get me out safely.

Before entering the carpeted area, I push the dimmer slowly allowing my eyes a chance to adjust before the room darkens, giving off just enough lingering light to see in front of me. I flick the switch wired to the warning light above the door on his side, telling him I'm in here. I also turn on the infrared video recorders that will tape our session, giving those kinky, fucked-up researchers something to analyze while we're not here during the other one hundred sixty-six hours of the week. Sighing, I stand in the near darkness for a moment, composing and rallying my nerve, waiting for him, hoping, eventually, all of this pays off.

 _I reason my annual management review, a day in traffic court, or maybe even a date with Satan could trump this._

 _._

Even through six inches of concrete and, probably, professional-grade sheetrock, I note the thump of a car door closing. The drawn-out squeak of his entrance door, needing lubrication, alerts me he's finally arrived.

 _Lubrication? From him? I wish._

 _._

His outside door closes shut, and I immediately tense, feeling my anxiety rebuilding. The little calm I gathered on the ride over is gone.

With bile rising and my blood pressure elevating, I feel anger and rage—basic fight-or-flight responses—escalating.

I'm beyond frustrated, fear the uncertainty, _still_ don't know this man, and hate giving up any control, so I do what just comes naturally.

 _I guess it's showtime._

* * *

A/N:

So, what are you thinking?

Is Ms. Swan conflicted?

Will this man have his hands full?

Will sparks fly?

Please leave your thoughts.

* * *

Thank you, Chayasara, the beta with the most-est!

* * *

Muah! to Bornonhalloween. She's the gift that keeps on giving! Chayasara is one, too!

* * *

I'm prereading "Knock Me Up Please" by gabby1017. Please read her story and leave her your words. :) She's posted Chapter 30 and is getting ready to wrap it up.

* * *

You can find me on Facebook as Penni Anne Daben. I have pages there as Postapocalypticdepository and Apocalyptic Depository. I think I'm on Pinterest, as Apocalyptic Depository, too.

* * *

Thank you for reading and being patient while waiting for my other stories.

I assure you I haven't forgotten them.

Also thank you for your reviews on Chapter One. I promise I will answer them.

PAD


	3. Chapter 3

Welcome to PAD's world.

I don't own anything, Stephenie Meyer, but I like borrowing her stuff.

(For those of you already here, I made additions and changes to chapters one and two; you may want to view those before you read this.)

Please let me know your thoughts.

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

* * *

I feel as though I should be conditioning my body, bouncing off the pads of my feet, shaking loose my arms, rolling my neck, even punching out a few jabs in between my warm up, waiting for my match.

It should make me happy that I'm gearing up to confront him. But it doesn't. I mentally prepare myself for all of my business meetings, why not this, too? A part of me feels guilty. I'm sure this guy is in the same situation as am I—chronically apathetic, situationally depressed, just trying to become whole again. He doesn't need an ornery witch like me making this more difficult, but I can't help myself. It's a cycle, and I'm a bitch. When I'm threatened, I let loose, and because I do, I'm alone.

 _I need to learn how not to be._

 _._

Ever punctual, and with my new found sense of time, I know he's late, and because he is, it gives me even more reasons to dislike him and feel less guilty. My blood boils with this knowledge as I wait patiently to unleash my frustration on _Mr. Unsuspecting_.

He turns the knob and waits the ten seconds and three chimes it takes, giving me enough time to step behind the partition, preserving our identities, before he enters.

He dims the remaining light then shuffles and mumbles about something, dropping what sounds like a set of car keys onto the countertop. The noise signals he's here, and we're doing this!

I wait for my eyes to readjust, absorbing the darkness, and count to ten, mustering my courage before grabbing the handrail guiding me back to the counter so I can begin to disrobe.

He takes out what he brought, and I smile, imagining him fighting with the brown paper wrapper, silently cursing while trying to gain access into the skinny bag with his long slender fingers, the fingers that sometimes fumble over my body. My amusement, however, is short-lived as somehow he manages a victory, placing the tiny "nip" bottle down in front of me.

I shudder, thinking about what I'm doing, and reason I wouldn't ever be caught with one of these in my higher circles. However, with the approval of our crock researchers running this party, we're allowed to have something alcoholic to keep us calm.

 _For me, it was either that or Valium._

If it weren't his turn to buy this week, Grey Goose would be sliding over my tongue, gliding down my gullet, stomping out all queasiness while warming my stomach.

 _Somehow, I have the feeling I'm about to be disappointed._

Placing my hand, gingerly, atop the counter, I find the bottle immediately and can't get the cap off fast enough before gulping it—the single shot they allow _that I need_ to endure this _endeavor_.

It's Tuesday, and though I don't make it a habit to drink anytime I'm expected back at work, I make this one exception two days a week; otherwise, I don't think I'd ever get through this.

The burn is immediate, and the taste vile. Hot Damn!

 _Blech!_

It's the brand of alcohol and not my reaction to this experience! In knowing this, I nearly spit the contents from my mouth, in realization. It all comes flashing back with memories of an experimental youth with little parental control, filled with high school bashes, wild frat parties, drunken weddings, and grueling hangovers.

 _"Aah_. . . Sorry, I ran late at work. I grabbed what was closest to the register at the package store. It was either _this_ or Fireball. Something told me your wrath would be far worse with the whiskey than with the schnapps."

Although he's right about his assumption, I don't let on. Hmph, cinnamon schnapps, indeed! What was he thinking? My tastes are much more refined.

I process what tastes like plastic, molasses, and cod liver oil. Finally some cinnamon makes an appearance as the alcohol begins its descent, racing through my system.

 _Not fast enough as far as I'm concerned_.

.

Four weeks ago, we were perfectly miserable, imperfect strangers cast together for the sole purpose of partaking in planned debauchery. Now that we're not so strange to each other, I can't truthfully say I'm any less miserable, and this makes me wonder if this treatment is even working.

Promising commitment to duration of our sessions, I reason it's _only_ been a month, so I'll try keeping an open mind.

 _I guess it has to be open to do this!_

I seriously thought I was going to throw up the first time we did it and truly grasp the concept of arranged marriages, understanding what my immigrant great-grandparents must have gone through when put together on their wedding night.

Maybe I'm being too dramatic. We're not married— _thank God_ —don't live together, and aren't even acquaintances.

I'm thankful I only have to participate in this twice a week for just an hour each time even though, in my opinion, it's two hours too long!

I have more important things to tend to like work, needing my time. I keep telling myself this will be over in a few months, and I'll never have to see this man again. Well, it's not exactly _seeing_ —it's more like being with—so I reason it's tolerable for now.

 _Tick tock, tick tock, I feel my need for control growing_.

"You know, you could work a little faster and pick up the pace here. I have an obligation downtown at six," I blurt impatiently.

"What could be more important than your health?" He reasons, schlepping along at his normal, pathetically slow tempo while I take time to consider my answer.

I gather he's removing his suit jacket and imagine him loosening buttons before hearing the faint rustling of what I assume is worsted wool—as I'd now most likely smell the acridity of polyester—when he pulls the fabric away from his shoulders.

The pleasing mixture of his cologne, deodorant, and aftershave complement each other and swirl with hints of citrus, iris, cedar, and spice. They meld with his own musk, creating a unique scent, which pokes at my nose, as he opens what I gather is his dress shirt.

 _Well, at least he's got something right_.

Unfortunately, it's short-lived as I continue prodding him along.

"My _job_ is more important, mind you! I still need to fix myself up after this and make it back to my office through rush hour traffic to be on time for a dinner meeting I have with associates arriving from China. They are flying here specifically to meet with me."

"Lucky them." He slips the words out sarcastically under his breath, thinking I won't hear or maybe hoping I will.

"Hey! I understand there is no love lost between us, but my work is _my_ work. It's important! The East doesn't appreciate waiting for the West! You aren't going to leave me much room to address that if you don't hurry up with getting yourself undressed and getting yourself off!" I clearly let my bitchiness speak for me.

"Excuse me? Hurry up getting _myself_ off? We haven't even started yet. You must be kidding. I thought we were going for a joint effort here."

 _He's definitely getting upset._

 _Clunk!_ He casts down, no doubt, a fine heavy watch and, by the sound of the higher pitch and the fact I hear two objects, his cufflinks.

At least he appears professional, caring about his attire. He's middle, no doubt; he doesn't seem to have the finesse of upper management _._

"Don't flatter yourself, Dig."

I spar right back, not curtsying to his idyllic thinking as I ease-off my heels, immediately sensing the touchy spot of my earlier debacle.

I flex my toes, trying to ascertain if any are sprained or broken, and realize I probably won't know until I try putting my shoe back on. Realizing there isn't much I can do about it, I continue undressing, clawing at my back with both hands, nearly pulling off the tab from the fabric while I unzip. After it passes my bra and lands below my waist, I slink the dress down, off my shoulders, over my boobs, and past my belly, shimmying a little, (who am I kidding?) shimmying a lot, trying to force it over my hips, cursing the one, two, or possibly three bags of Halloween candy responsible for my present predicament! _Ugh!_ I finally slay anaconda swallowing me, allowing the fabric to reach the floor.

 _Victory!_

Not wanting to chance soiling it from who knows who, doing God knows what prior to my visit, I speedily pick it up, slipping it onto one of the flimsy wire hangers left by, probably, a prior guinea pig handed my same ill fate.

It's a cheap hanger encased in tissue paper, one most likely left over from someone else's dry cleaning.

 _I hate tissue paper.  
_

I sneer at it in the dark because it irritates me, and because it irritates me, I have to poke a hole through it with my nail just because I feel the need to be destructive.

 _Better it than him._

"I told you not to call me that." He slings his words as if throwing mud at the name I called him, making me feel the slight breeze as he dips down, hurriedly untying, I assume, his soft-soled dress shoes.

 _I'm not intimidated_.

We were advised to either use our first names or come up with pseudonyms for this experiment. He went with Degare—a derivative of the surname Diggory—explaining that Cedric was his favorite _Harry Potter_ character. I, on the other hand, was not so forthright in giving my explanation for Bellinda, which is a combination of my real name, Isabella, and Linda Carter, _aka_ Wonder Woman, with whom I share a personal affinity.

Hey, a girl could be teased for divulging something like that so not wanting to suffer anymore embarrassment, I keep that explanation to myself!

"Very well then, _Gar_. You already know the only reason I'm here is because I've tried nearly every antidepressant known to man and have run out of options. I can see that this clinical trial will work no better than anything else, so although I've already written myself out of this equation, there isn't any reason why you shouldn't reap the benefits of my company. Since I've now reluctantly signed on and am therefore _required_ to participate in this study, have at it Diggory, Degare, or whoever you are. Just make it snappy." I make my demand while sticking my chest out, huffing while trying to loosen the hooks of my bra.

I hear him let out a deep sigh before beginning to toss his stuff forcefully and a little more hastily onto the provided counter. He "oh shits" quietly when I hear what sounds like loose change falling to the laminate floor. He's right behind it as I note the sound of his toes crackling and popping while he lowers himself to the fake wood, probably balancing on the cap of one knee as he undoubtedly crouches with the other to gather his stray coins and whatever other strange male things guys keep hidden in their pants pockets.

"Oh great, not another interruption!" I take the extra time to pin up my cumbersome curls so it won't appear as though I've had late afternoon sex—even though I will. I know I definitely won't have enough time to take a shower or shampoo my hair, so putting up my hair will have to do.

"I'll never get out of here. Just leave it for the cleaning crew. You're always so damned meticulous about everything. It takes you forever." I rant peeling off my stockings, thinking he's far worse than any female roommate I've ever had.

"Bellinda?"

He gruffs out my alias forcefully, emphasizing the B, questioning me as he rises to his feet.

As I stand near him, he seems a little less flustered, maybe more confident. I guess he's found everything he was missing.

"I, um, like Linda, if you don't mind." I offer my words calmly, knowing I'm probably pushing a bit too much and am now starting to abrade him, which is funny when I think about it because I don't actually think you could "rub" a guy the wrong way.

"Look! It doesn't matter whatever _pardon-my-fucking-French_ fake names we give each other. This isn't going to work!"

I sense his growing aggravation.

"You seem hell-bent on killing my erection _every_ time we do this, and I no longer have any shred of anticipation regarding this arrangement . . ."

If he were any other man, I'm sure he'd be pummeling the wall by now.

"I don't know how much more of this I can take. Your condescending attitude and lack of cooperation toward me is something else . . ."

In this moment, I actually feel a little bad for him. I didn't want to push him this far.

"It's no wonder you're depressed and not presently in a relationship. Frankly, I don't see how _any_ man could tolerate you . . ."

I take that back. _Everything_ I want to unleash on him, he now has coming!

"I didn't agree to this. This is torture!"

He sums up his tirade, offering his painfully brutal observation, pissing me off to my tipping point.

He must have had a shitty day, and it catches me off guard. He's never this forward or ever even swears—unless he's right in the middle of an orgasm. I suppose I should cut him some slack. Sadly, though, my inability to tamp down my outspokenness doesn't have me winning any popularity contests and, sometimes, even sends men running because of it. However, I draw the line when people criticize or raise their voices to _me_.

 _That's unacceptable!_

"How dare you! You have no right, speaking that way! You know nothing about me!" I bellow back, acknowledging his truth when considering yet another, presently looming, failed encounter.

"How dare I? I think I have every right, and I think I just did. I know enough to know that you have an extremely difficult time with males and intimacy and might be better off switching teams, rooting for man-hating women with your pompoms. If you don't acknowledge the need to relinquish some of your control with what we are doing, you'll leave me with no choice but to bail."

I take a swing at him and miss. "You prick!"

"Yes, I do have one."

 _Now he's mocking me!_

"Only in in the last month, it hasn't been relishing the idea of 'pricking' you."

"Asshole!" I spew.

"Yes, I suppose I _am_ acting like one in this moment, but you bring it out, _honey_. Trust me. I'm not any happier about being stuck with you and your venom for the next eight weeks! What the hell was I thinking, agreeing to this arrangement? I've been told I'm generally a _very_ polite, _very_ nice guy who rarely speaks up and is certainly _never_ this rude to women. I can't believe I'm letting you turn me into this, this crazed animal, I'm not."

I know I'm difficult to get along with, but I'll be damned if I'm going to simply allow this insulting doormat to just fuck me, regardless of the rare confidence he's presently exuding while given this confrontation.

I remove my panties, neatly tucking them under my dress belt, before deciding I'll hit him where I know I can.

"Maybe that's your problem. You're just a wimp, a pussy of a man who can't even stand up for himself. I bet you let people walk over you all the time, men, women, even your mother. Hell, if I did that in my world, I would be eaten alive. You seriously need to stop sucking on your mother's tit, grow a set, and learn how to assert yourself."

I turn around, groping in the dark until I find the handrail. Using it as my seeing eye dog, I let it guide me to the bed where I lower myself, listening attentively, recognizing the signs of his perturbation.

I hear him running his hand over his face and scratching his five o'clock shadow while probably clutching—make that pulling—his hair before letting out a breath I can feel over here even with the ventilation system on.

 _I must have struck a nerve. Maybe he has mommy issues._

"Assert myself? You want to see me assert myself? I'll give you assertion."

His dress belt whirs through the loops of his trousers like a ripcord being pulled from a lawnmower.

 _I'm surprised I missed that. I thought he'd already removed his slacks._

He quickly whips free the leather, and like a snake, moves himself so stealthily I don't even have time to consider his intentions.

Before I even realize it, the waist-warmed hide slips around my wrists, pulling my arms tightly above my head as he fastens me, anchoring the tether to the metal bar attached to the bedframe.

"What the fuck are you doing, you jerk? Take it easy! I bruise!" I chastise him without reasoning that my attitude always gets in the way of my common sense.

Unfortunately, however, it's after the fact as _he's_ now the one clearly in control.

I'm fuming and attempting to keep my anger in check, but I'm just as equally impressed that he has this much skill in the dark. Maybe he knows how to harness horses or rope steers.

Nah, his hands are too soft. He's probably never even been in a barn. But, seriously, could I somehow be underestimating him? Should I instead be worried?"

"What are you d-doing?"

This is the first time since we were partnered I'm actually a little concerned, maybe even a little scared. I'm wondering now whether I shouldn't have coerced him this far.

"Something I should have done weeks ago when we first started—shut you up!"

Finally, maybe the man is stepping up, and although I don't care much for brashness other than my own, I'm curious to see where he takes this.

 _I suppose I should be careful what I wish for._

"Yes, please prove to me that you're worthy of my company and not a disappointment like all of the others," I retort one last time, hoping I don't regret what's in store.

 _Me and my damned mouth._

"You _really_ shouldn't have said that," he threatens, menacingly with no amusement in his voice.

Should I swallow my pride and red flag, telling him to stop?

His cold words have the hair on my skin standing on end as I hear him walk around the platform bed I'm presently lying on, naked, and anchored to. It's as if he's contemplating, calculating, sizing up what to do with me.

I swallow as if I'm pushing down a cork, trying to gather saliva as I feel my heart begin to gallop.

He stops circling and, I think, moves over to the counter where we set down our things. I immediately sense the loss of heat, his heat, as he steps away, leaving the air conditioning pouring over me alone.

I can't be certain what he's up to, as it's always pitch black in this room, but I think he's rummaging through our clothing left there.

I can identify the repositioning of my shoes against the formica when he raises and lowers them, the movement of my clutch as the sterling chain slinks from side to side, and the sliding of my belt buckle, before hearing the pads of his feet coupled with snaps of his toes as he makes his way back toward me.

 _He wouldn't._

"What are you—" I manage the weak attempt at voicing my concern, barely getting the words out as my lungs strain to breathe with my arms overhead as he decides to join me again.

 _He isn't._

I catch a whiff of my own body wash and recognize the after-shower moisturizer I use while feeling the silk and lace of my previously shed undergarment hastily touch my neck and rub over my chin as he fumbles in the blackness of this room but still manages to maneuver my panties, eventually stuffing my mouth shut.

 _He did!_

* * *

A/N:

So, we've gotten a glimpse of our mystery man.

Forget the boxing metaphors, we have moved on to fencing ones.

Is this En Garde or Invitation?

How's Bella going to handle this?

How _should_ she handle it?

How should _he_ handle her?

Btw, _who_ is this handler? (and what is _his_ backstory)

All right, enough handling!

How were the changes to the other chapters?

Give me your feedback.

* * *

Thank you, Chayasara. (My post-beta stubbornness is my own.)

* * *

Thank you for reading.

PAD


	4. Chapter 4

No lie, I reworked this at least twenty-five times.

Let me know what you think.

Thank you for being patient.

Crap happens.

In my case, a lot of it!

If you're interested, review or PM me.

Welcome to the world that is PAD's life.

I don't own anything, Stephenie Meyer, but I like borrowing her stuff. My plot is mine.

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

* * *

My shock is no longer an issue. Anger's now percolating inside me, creating a fierce, scalding blend I'd like to pour down his throat or pitch at his face.

That bastard! He has me tasting my own underwear!

"Fuck you, let me go!" I yell unintelligibly into my Parisian bikinis—the ones, barely there, costing me more than a week's worth of groceries and presently giving my incisors a workout—the ones on any other given day, I would have a great deal of difficulty destroying.

He has some nerve, treating me like this, and is damned lucky both my hands are tied because I'd have no qualms at all about ripping off the body part with which he's obviously thinking and stuffing it in _his_ mouth!

As my determined tongue tirelessly pokes and plods away at the foreign object, trying to dislodge the demure but thankfully scanty garment, I can't praise the powers that are enough for allowing me to void yesterday's Mexican food _before_ my morning shower!

Cursing _him_ with each breath, I move the fabric away from the back of my mouth, pushing it against my palate, sliding it past my teeth. I let my mouth work while my mind concentrates on other distractions, distractions like envisioning the finest intimates: silk, satin, lace, and even leather (not that I'd ever go _there_ ) and think about how far fashion has evolved in such a short time. My wandering imagination displays dainty apparel worn by buxom pin-up girls from each decade of the last hundred years all the way back to before the turn-of-the-century. Back then, though, I wouldn't exactly describe their clothing as dainty. Some of it was downright scary. I envisage women laundering, scrubbing their unmentionables, hanging their ballooning bloomers out to dry, and it finally dawns on me I could be in a situation far worse. As such, in this moment, I am very appreciative of the fact I didn't live back then with him doing what he is now because I would most likely have already died from asphyxiation. Of course, this doesn't excuse him, considering he's still holding me captive!

Reality beckons, bringing me back to the moment, and I scream garbled nonsense into the fabric, hoping he'll come to his senses and regain some of his niceness so he'll decide to release me.

He's wedged the textile enough to keep me breathing but stop me from talking, making me wonder if he's done this before or is just that lucky. My natural instinct has me attempting to cough, trying to keep the item from slipping down my throat, but this proves almost impossible as my gag reflex is making me want to vomit, causing me to salivate, making me want to swallow it.

Come to think of it, I've never swallowed his. Blech! Is that something I'd consider?

 _Hell, no! Not now! Not ever!_

Getting back to my present situation, with this new revelation, I continue coughing but do so more carefully, making small gains with my tongue, millimeter by millimeter, using it like a plow to push away at the sheer, snowy, material. In doing so, I come very close to dislodging the obstruction, telling myself a just a little more.

 _Ptui! . . . Ptui!_ . . . _Ptui!_

One last final combination of pushing and spitting . . . _ptui_ . . . releases my panties while unleashing my words.

"You dick! You fucking prick! You arrogant asshole! You're not going to get away with this!"

Somewhere in between each exclamation I fully surprise myself, managing to refill my lungs while giving a voice to my temper.

Appearing unfazed by my outburst, I hear him release a quiet chuckle, which intrigues me because he usually doesn't seem to have a sense of humor. I also hear the clink of his ring sliding against the metal of the handrail encircling the room as he once again, wordlessly, moves toward our things.

I try picturing the simple band, worn on the third finger of his left hand. It's something I've frequently asked about, but he's never given me any straight answer regarding its significance. From what I've gathered, it's the one piece of jewelry he never removes. Unfortunately, this evasiveness conjures up in me all kinds of negative thoughts. He's probably some player, duping his poor wife, duping the people setting up this experiment, duping me! His deceitfulness is disgusting. At least I _truly_ have no one. I don't have to pretend, but that's what's unsettling about my assumption. His ordinarily spineless personality doesn't mesh with him being a cheat. He honestly does act like a gentleman each time we're here—well, as much of a gentleman as he can, considering what we do—that is until today.

 _Gentleman my ass!_

Acknowledging I no longer need to concentrate on unobstructed breathing, I try twisting myself out of the hold in which he's placed me, but any attempt I make proves pointless. My wrists, crossing overhead, rub against each other, bone to bone, while the rigid hide of his belt digs into the meaty part of my thumb, hurting me. Regardless of what I do, it's futile for me to struggle. I just can't free myself.

Arrgh!

This isn't a game anymore!

Because the word _quit_ doesn't hide in my closet, I make one last violent attempt to break free, causing my shoulders to grind and pop, reminding me that my thirty-six year-old body—presently craving glucosamine—has seen better days.

Aah, grinding then popping. Dance floors. Stair wells. Office closets. I had a lot of fun back then, back then when I wasn't as mean like a wolverine!

 _There's nothing wrong with holding one's own in the corporate forest._

Why would I want to hold on to _my own_ when I could be holding on to _someone else's_ , someone male that is?

As much as I hate him winning, I'd hate tearing my body parts because of it even more. It's for this reason I conclude if I know what's good for me, I should back down before seriously injuring something. Aside from presently taking time away from my job, I don't need to add doctor visits, physical therapy, and possibly even surgery if I can't restrain my obstinacy.

My chest rises and falls as I pant, pulling the cool, dry, air-conditioned air through my nose. I try keeping my mind off my discomfort, but in doing so, lose my awareness and, subsequently, fail to pay much attention to what he is doing. This proves a bad move on my part, considering he's already back at his side of the bed, standing next to me.

 _Sneaky bastard! I don't appreciate being caught off guard!_

I sense him beginning to lean over when my fight response makes an encore.

This is about survival instincts, not being a lady, so I scrape what phlegm I can—which isn't easy, considering I used up most of it trying to rid myself of my panties. I make nasally, guttural noises, and decide, what the hell, I should just go for gusto, hawking it at him. So I do!

I'm not sure I got a bull's-eye and hit his face, but I do know I at least struck my target because I hear him snickering while most likely removing my spit off him, only to smear it back on me, over my left tit, just grazing the nipple, which slightly responds.

 _I'd say it's more than just slightly._

I'm not stupid. I know he's enjoying this—probably too much. I also know he's using this opportunity to discern my proximity. Just as I figure this out, he's already initiated his plan.

He brings his right knee onto the bed, nudging my hip, then begins maneuvering the item he procured on his little excursion, the one skimming my brow, the one now making me fume which he sets next to my head.

"My dress belt! I had it custom made along with my bag and shoes left back at my office. You had better not damage it. If I find one scratch . . ."

Still poised, on his leg and knee, he leans over me, bracing his weight, pressing his right hand into the mattress next to my shoulder.

It comes out of nowhere, from somewhere I don't realize exists, and shocks the shit out of me, making me forget where I am. His mouth covers mine, completely consuming it, and if I didn't know better, I would think he was suffocating me. He doesn't pinch my nose closed, so I guess he just wants to make a point; but right now, I'm not sure exactly what that is. Once I stop yelling, he starts moving his tongue. He cautiously runs it over my teeth, most likely testing if I'll bite. When I don't, he sticks a toe in the water and touches the roof of my mouth, making sure it is still safe before diving in. When he does, my tongue surprisingly meets his, and though skittish at first, we quickly become two seals frolicking in the same ocean, rolling under the current, floating on the surface, and bumping while we bob, trying to toss the same ball. Then we rest, settling, giving our lips a chance to tug and pull and knead flesh grateful for the experience. Sensations move throughout me, lighting pleasure centers like streetlamps wired to tandem circuits. My whole body, buzzing with illumination, doesn't want him to stop, but he does, drawing one last pull, sucking my skin, releasing my lip, the upper lip not minding his newly found upper hand.

Still dazed, I don't object as he loops the thin lizard accessory I fortuitously chose this morning, never once thinking I would be having an Indiana-Jones-Holy-Grail-style-selection moment determining my fate while I dressed. He slips the textured reptile skin, dyed black, under the back of my head, sliding it down to my neck. Then he threads the tapered end through the buckle but leaves the belt unfastened.

He hesitates, waiting for another protest, but I put my attitude in park, believing that I'm making the right call, permitting him to make the decisions . . . even if it's _just_ this once.

Understanding he probably has no intentions of changing his mind, releasing me, I still make a reasonable plea. "Just don't . . . don't hurt me." My mouth acts alone, pleading, seeking his sympathy. It shocks my calcified heart, causing it to beat double-time while my brain deciphers the words I just said. I'm not comfortable being vulnerable. I _don't_ hand over my well being to just anyone, and it's not only the thought of physical injury bothering me—it's the emotional pain, too. I've let him into my personal space. I've let him do things to me no one has ever done. I've also trusted him like no one else and hate not knowing what he'll do next.

 _Speaking of which._

He grabs my panties, lying next to my ear, and eases the now spittle-soaked fabric under my belt, placing it over my mouth. He secures the cloth by giving the leather a slight tug, stretching it, coaxing the animal skin to follow the contour of my hollowed cheeks before he slips the buckle prong through a belt notch, keeping the garment in place. He then rotates the belt, a hundred eighty degrees, so the metal and excess leather are at the back of my head near the nape of my neck. This time, I surmise his actions are more about maintaining the mood rather than harboring spite.

My reasoning asks me why I'm permitting him to do this, but my stubbornness, not really caring about my reasoning, just wants to kick him in his junk. What he is doing is demeaning, and I shouldn't have to tolerate it. End of discussion.

 _I need to stop being a drama queen and suck it up! I'm tougher than this! Right now, it's just a muzzle, not a gag! I can always get my revenge later._

At least now I can swallow and breathe unhindered, and though I continue feeling apprehensive, I should have faith in him not to harm me. After all, he'd be stupid to mess with me when we're being recorded. Unfortunately, that does little to make me feel at ease, considering I have yet to move or communicate with a bite restraint strapped over my mouth!

 _I need to keep my edge._

Even quite tense, I squash down my uneasy thoughts. I'm _letting_ him do this but still feel equal parts pissed and panicked. It would be a lot easier if he were to just kiss me as he did before. No games. No sex. No hassle.

 _Whoa! Did I just admit I liked his lips?_

Possibly.

I'm confused and probably having trouble with my circulation. Clearly, I'm not thinking clearly. I start shifting my weight to relieve the uncomfortable tightness I feel in my chest. Obviously, I'm not used to someone restraining me. That's what must be clouding my brain.

Almost as if he's reading my mind, he leans over and loosens the tether from the headboard, not freeing, but at least lessening some of the tension, easing some of the pressure off my chest. As he moves away, returning to his prior position, his underarm hair brushes my nose.

It's soft. It tickles. He smells especially good today, too!

 _Now is not the time for me to get soft._

It's not the time for him to get soft, either, and for my sake, I hope he isn't. Wet noodle canoodling is more trouble than what it's worth.

For self-preservation, I decide to begrudgingly give in to his actions. I can't see, can't speak, and can't use my hands, but I can think.

Aside from reciting positive affirmations or giving myself a pep talk, I do what I do before losing a deal or reprimanding an employee. I exhale.

My psychiatrist tells me I need to practice visualizing more often. I pretend I'm blowing out all of those candles appearing on my last birthday cake, the cake my mom made me, the one with all of those tiny individual flickers, the flickers taunting me, the ones telling me I'm already too old and should be helping my own little boy and girl blow out candles on their own cakes. As my breath pushes its way past what now feels like a damp sponge guarding my mouth, I consider my thoughts. My mom threw me that party because I had no one else. Her upstairs and downstairs neighbors came, but there were no real friends of mine. My dad, just a teenager himself, broke up with my mom when she had just turned sixteen and found out she was pregnant with me. My mom's mom, the grandma I never knew, had just died from ovarian cancer. With my mom's dad dying from a factory accident a few years before, my mom didn't have anyone except for my grandma, and now my mom didn't even have her. Italian, Catholic, and completely alone, my mom sought help from those she knew would provide it, the sisters at the parochial school she attended.

With everything out of my lungs, I forcefully inhale, trying to pull enough air past the obstruction under my nose. Panties _over_ my mouth aren't anywhere near as bad as panties _in_ my mouth, but they still impede my breathing. The last thing I want to do is pass out.

I think about the belt holding my undies in place, the one stifling my rants. I guess it's not necessarily all bad. I can't believe I'm thinking this, but him forcing me to be quiet is somewhat tranquilizing. I stop short of saying it's comfortable because I'd be a lunatic if I went there, but there is something pleasant about not hearing myself berate others, bark derogatory comments, or say horribly disparaging things.

My eardrums aren't vibrating either.

 _I think I need to think about that._

I used to be a great daughter, a good girlfriend, a caring coworker, and a nice person.

 _I think being a nice person like him can be overrated. Look how long it took for him to stand up to me._

Have I become that bad?

 _Yes, I have._

I surrender to the moment, but not to _him._ He hasn't earned it yet. Not hearing my shrill sounds is actually affording me a modicum of serenity. Deep breaths allow me to dispel some of my frustration but obviously don't completely quell my worrying. I'd be mad to submit to everything he could do, but I can't afford to lose my cool either. I'm at his mercy and need to act diplomatically.

 _Count to ten._

One. Two. Three . . .

 _Relax._

Four. Five. Six . . .

 _Focus._

Seven. Eight. Nine . . .

Warming sun.

Lapping waves.

Trickling water.

Pleasing chimes.

 _Rigorous massage . . ._

 _with warm oil . . ._

 _and hot rocks . . ._

 _by a man named Klaus . . ._

 _who has great hands . . ._

 _and an even greater body._

Ten.

There's a body in front of me that isn't half bad either.

 _Uh-uh, I will not be sucked in by the moment. I'm not here to think about that! He's still clearly dangerous!_

Would I think it was any better if he were the one doing the sucking?

 _No!_

 _Maybe._

 _I don't know!_

I feel my feet pressing into the bedspread over the mattress.

I still need to let him get _in_ and _out_ , so I can get back for my meeting.

 _In_ and _out_ as opposed _getting it on_? I think I'm missing the point. Maybe _his point_ is the point I'm missing.

 _This is just therapy! Forget hurting him; clearly, I'm the one needing a kick in the vagina!_

I think I need a time out.

In any other situation, I would consider using "R" word to describe this, forced sex. In any other environment, it would constitute a felony, but here we're supposed to be consenting. All of the other times, we didn't have issues. Well, _I_ didn't have issues because I called all the shots. Today it's different. It's the same story but a new chapter. Maybe it's even a new book.

 _I'm not here to think about that._

But he's showing backbone.

 _Why?_

To put me in my place.

 _No one does that!_

Maybe they ought to.

 _No one else silences me._

I think that driver-less carriage has pulled away.

 _Yeah, and he should suffer the consequences for it._

Am I sure about that?

 _I'm not sure if I'm sure about anything._

Well, I'm sure that's a first.

He stands up on both feet, and I hear him crack what I think is his neck before he drops to the carpet. A small thump on the floor leads me to believe he has dropped to both knees. The scuffing noises and subsequent whispered counting tells me he's doing push-ups. He's never done them here before, so I'm both surprised and curious. Maybe he needs to calm down, too.

 _Or pump up._

I put my snarky self in check and decide to just absorb the experience.

I listen to his measured breaths and imagine his hands and feet at equal distance as he moves himself up and down. I giggle thinking about his penis getting rug burn when touching the carpet.

When he reaches what I think is fifty, he stands up and breathes deeply for about ten seconds. With one last exhale, he decides to rejoin me.

He begins by placing his left knee on the bed at my thigh. The foam mattress compresses deeper as he swings his other knee over me and aligns his body with mine while straddling my hips.

The part now tapping at my stomach—the one he previously proclaimed flaccid—isn't anywhere near deflated, now.

"Lift up." He says with a deep whisper.

He pushes into the bed with both hands, causing his forearms to graze the sides of my breasts as he evenly distributes his weight while hunched over me.

The radiation off his body is warm, like a burst of moist air from a hot oven.

His perspiration and cologne, entangling with the pheromones he's emitting from just having exercised, is intoxicating.

The biology of sex and drugs course I took in college is telling me that my body's natural inclination toward letting him mount me is a normal, conditioned response.

He gathers the spread and sheets from underneath me and shoves the linens down to the end of the bed.

As much as my mind wants me to push him back, my body wants more for me to grab him, holding on, pulling him forward to lick, suck, and dig my nails into.

Involuntarily, I plant my feet firmly into the memory mattress and welcome the quicksand sensation, stabilizing me. Like a hungry hamster starving for just about anything food-related, I'm here, ready to nibble.

My feet sink deeper, assisting my thighs in raising my pelvis. My elevated hips unapologetically search for his while I seek the rest of him.

Today, I'm actually interested in what he's doing and providing he lets me have my hands back at some point, maybe I can work myself _up_ , getting a little release before I go back to work. I think I deserve it.

 _Yeah. Today, a release would be nice. I can go back to being a bitch next time._

Both his hands support my back while holding my ribs as he lowers my body back down to a lying position, effectively closing my parted legs. Wisps of lengthy hair from the top of his head sweep the underside of my chin and brush my neck before floating over my breastbone. Then his lips part, moistening the skin over my sternum, making me want him to do that again before he moves away.

I involuntarily push with my feet, feeling the burning in my thighs, the straining in my chest, and the stretching in my arms. I want him.

"Not yet, sweetheart." There's no malice in his term of endearment this time.

Tingling courses all over me like painful shivers from a high fever. Everything is very sensitive and feels much more intense.

On the left side of my body, beginning with my wrist, he starts tracing on my skin, drawing an imaginary line, using just the tip of his index finger. He skims the smooth flesh at the underside of my arm, traveling down over my forearm, pausing for a moment, pressing into the crux of my elbow. From there he glides as if on ice to my armpit, making me squirm when scraping his nail against where I just shaved this morning. Not yet content with making me wiggle, he circles my breast, using the pad of his thumb, leaving only his imprint. He pulls his hand away long enough to lick his thumb before spreading a tiny bit of moisture, _his taste_ , over my nipple. He puckers, gently blowing a minuscule puff, only enough air necessary for a single beat of a dragonfly's wing. That little bit of breath blown over my dampened nipple, makes my legs jump like I'm a wooden toy with a pull string.

"As much as I'd like to take care of me, this time it's all about you."

His voice is pure maple syrup heated and poured over whipped butter, churned from fresh cream. I want his melted butter spread all over my body, enveloping my warm bread just popped from a hot toaster, warm bread I hope he continues sprinkling with his sweetened words, sweetened with his brand of confectioner's sugar, the sugar dotting his syrup, blanketing his butter, melting on my bread—bread, I hope, he'll savor before he devours.

.

.

.

Mmm. For the first time since we've started, I don't think our session will be long enough.

* * *

A/N:

So what do you think of Bella's stranger now?

Should he hold back or just give it to her?

Now that we know a little more about her backstory, what are you thinking about his?

Please let me know what you're thinking.

* * *

Thank you, Chayasara.

* * *

Thank you for your patience and for reading.

PAD


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